Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 39: The Duke of Redwood

Part 1

Dawn broke over Redwood Estate with a quiet majesty. Pale, golden light spilled across the meticulously manicured lawns, catching on the dew-laden grass like scattered diamonds. The ancient oak trees that had witnessed generations of Redwood patriarchs stood sentinel along the grand driveway, their branches swaying gently in the crisp, late-March breeze.

Philip stood rigid on the helicopter landing pad, his tailored morning coat immaculate despite the early hour. The past week had rushed by in a flurry of preparation for the Duke's arrival—servants polishing every surface until it gleamed, gardeners sculpting hedges with mathematical precision, and chefs planning menus worthy of imperial banquets. Behind him, the entire household staff formed two perfect columns, one on each side of the path toward the pad, each member starched and pressed into aristocratic perfection.

Despite his lingering concussion, Philip had risen before sunrise, Lydia's firm instructions ringing in his ears. "The Duke values punctuality above all virtues save loyalty," she had advised while adjusting his cravat with practiced hands that morning. What had surprised Philip most during the preparations was witnessing Lydia's transformation—the practical housekeeper had suddenly revealed a courtly elegance that bordered on the regal, coaching Natalia on the proper way to curtsy, the correct fork to use for seafood, and a dozen other aristocratic minutiae.

"Where did you learn all this?" Philip had asked, bewildered by her encyclopedic knowledge of noble etiquette.

"Serving a Duke's household requires more than knowing how to press linens," she had replied with a mysterious smile that somehow transformed her usually plain features into something almost beautiful. "Some of us weren't born to privilege but had to study it like a foreign language."

Now, as the distant thrum of approaching helicopters vibrated through the chilly morning air, Philip straightened his shoulders and tried to ignore the throbbing in his temples. The cold seemed to seep through his coat despite its quality, and he lamented the necessity of standing in the bitter chill just to satisfy aristocratic pageantry.

"Prepare yourselves," Albert murmured to the staff. "The first helicopter approaches."

The sleek, black machine appeared over the tree line, its rotors slicing through the morning mist. It descended with military precision onto the landing pad, the downdraft rippling across the meticulously arranged red carpet. Philip felt his heart quicken despite himself. This was it—his first meeting with the formidable Duke of Redwood since his transmigration.

The helicopter door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

What emerged was not the Duke but six men in perfectly tailored black suits, each moving with the mechanical precision of a well-oiled machine. They wore identical, dark sunglasses despite the early hour, their lean, muscled bodies suggesting years of combat training beneath the expensive fabric. They fanned out across the landing area with practiced efficiency, hands hovering near concealed weapons.

"The Duke's advance security," Lydia whispered to Philip, who was trying to mask his confusion. "Standard procedure."

Before Philip could respond, a second helicopter materialized—this one white with gold trim. As it touched down, an entirely new contingent emerged: six men, all with platinum-blonde hair, their white suits stretched taut over bulging muscles. Each carried a ceremonial baton on one hip and what appeared to be a modified pistol on the other. They positioned themselves in a different formation, creating an interlocking defensive perimeter with the first group.

"The Duke's personal guard," Albert explained, his voice betraying no hint of the absurdity Philip was feeling. "The Black and White Divisions."

A third helicopter landed before the second had fully departed—this one midnight blue with silver accents. From it descended six men in what appeared to be nineteenth-century military uniforms, complete with gleaming epaulets and ornate sabers hanging at their sides. Unlike the previous guards, these men wore no sunglasses, revealing faces so strikingly handsome that they seemed almost artificial. Each had hair styled in elaborate waves that somehow remained perfect despite the helicopter's downdraft.

"The Blue Division," Lydia noted, as if this explained everything. "They are the ceremonial guards."

Philip blinked, bewildered. "How many more—"

The next three helicopters arrived in swift succession, depositing female counterparts to each previous division: black-suited women with raven hair, white-suited blondes, and blue-uniformed beauties, all moving with the same deadly grace as their male counterparts.

"The Duchess insisted on gender parity in the security detail," Albert commented. "Quite progressive for her generation."

Just as Philip was certain they must have reached the end of this excessive procession, a helicopter plated in what appeared to be actual gold descended from the clouds, sunlight glinting off its polished surface in a display so ostentatious it bordered on parody. Surely this gaudy machine contained the Duke himself?

But no—from this golden conveyance emerged four individuals who, while not guards, exuded their own brand of aristocratic importance.

"The Duke's entourage," Lydia explained as they approached. "Mr. Harrington, the Duke's parliamentary aide." She nodded toward a handsome, middle-aged man whose tailored suit seemed to have been sewn directly onto his athletic frame.

"Lady Victoria Ashcroft," Lydia continued, indicating a breathtaking redhead whose tall, curvaceous figure commanded attention despite the early hour. "The Duke's public relations officer. She handles all media interactions and reputation management."

Philip couldn't help but stare at the woman, whose emerald eyes seemed to assess and categorize every detail of the estate as she walked.

"Mr. Thornbridge," Lydia added, nodding toward a powerfully built man who appeared to be near Albert's age. "The Duke's personal steward and Albert's long-term rival." As Mr. Thornbridge passed Albert, the two men exchanged curt nods, their subtle tension suggesting a long-standing professional rivalry.

"And Sir Reginald Pembroke, the Duke's personal valet," Lydia finished, indicating a meticulously groomed man in his forties wearing what appeared to be a modern interpretation of knightly attire. "He oversees all matters of the Duke's personal appearance and presentation."

Philip fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. This excessive parade of personnel simply to announce the arrival of one man made the entire experience feel unreal. Yet the staff around him maintained expressions of reverent awe, clearly accustomed to such displays of aristocratic excess.

Then, just as Philip contemplated the ridiculous lengths to which nobility would go to assert their importance, Lydia touched his arm and whispered, "The Duke arrives."

He followed her gaze to a surprisingly plain, unmarked helicopter approaching from the east—a utilitarian gray machine with none of the ornamentation of its predecessors.

"That's the Duke's helicopter?" Philip asked incredulously. "It's so... ordinary."

"The Duke prefers to maintain a low profile," Lydia replied with perfect seriousness.

Albert leaned in slightly. "The golden helicopter serves as a decoy. Anyone targeting the Duke would naturally focus on the most ostentatious aircraft."

"Ah," Philip replied, suddenly understanding the darker strategy behind the display. "A shield. Or a scapegoat."

"Precisely," Albert nodded, his expression grave. "Style and substance rarely occupy the same space in aristocratic circles, Master Philip."

As the helicopter descended toward the landing pad, the clouds parted as if by command, allowing a single shaft of golden sunlight to illuminate the craft. The wind, which had been brisk all morning, suddenly calmed to a reverent whisper. Even the birds seemed to pause their morning songs in deference.

The helicopter touched down with perfect precision. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door slid open, and a figure clad entirely in black leapt out with inhuman agility. The man wore what appeared to be a blend of traditional ninja garb and modern tactical wear, his face obscured by a mask that revealed only sharp, assessing eyes. He scanned the gathering with methodical thoroughness before giving an almost imperceptible nod.

Only then did the true object of all this ceremony emerge.

Duke Redwood stepped from the helicopter with the measured grace of a man who had never needed to hurry. Despite being in his mid-sixties, he carried himself with the upright posture of a much younger man, his lean frame suggesting a lifetime of disciplined activity. He wore a crimson aristocratic uniform festooned with so many medals and decorations that Philip wondered how the fabric supported their weight.

"Those medals could probably stop a bullet," the System chimed in his mind, her voice dripping with amusement.

Behind the Duke emerged a towering figure in an impeccable black tuxedo, his face partially concealed by an elegant mask reminiscent of a masquerade ball. Multiple weapons adorned his powerful frame—pistols at his hips, what appeared to be a magical submachine gun strapped to his back, and an ornate saber at his side. Most incongruously, a single red rose was pinned to his lapel, its vivid color stark against the black fabric.

"Captain Roland, head of the Duke's personal security," Lydia whispered. "The rose is the way he shows respect for worthy assailants that he defeats. It makes him feel better, but it also drove up the cost of roses in the capital. So young men all hate him, and he is stuck with only beautiful young women as friends."

"How... tragic," Philip managed, trying not to appear disturbed.

What followed was a carefully choreographed greeting ceremony that felt more appropriate for visiting royalty than a family member. The Duke moved down the line of staff with mechanical efficiency, acknowledging each bow or curtsy with the slightest nod of his head. When he reached Albert and Lydia, he offered a curt "Charmed" to each, his voice a cultured baritone that managed to convey both authority and disinterest simultaneously.

When he finally stood before Philip, the Duke regarded him with cool assessment. "How do you do, Grandson?" he asked, though the question clearly required no answer. He continued walking before Philip could formulate a response, leaving him with the distinct impression that he had somehow failed an unspoken test.

The entire procession then moved toward the mansion, the Duke's entourage falling into practiced formation around him as Albert directed the staff to manage the considerable luggage being unloaded from yet another helicopter that had arrived unnoticed during the greetings.

Natalia was conspicuously absent from the welcoming party—a deliberate decision Lydia had made to prevent any premature interaction before the Duke could be properly prepared. Philip found himself both relieved and anxious about their eventual meeting, uncertain how his grandfather would react to the mysterious "mistress" who had become the subject of such widespread speculation.

Several hours later, Philip received a summons to attend the Duke in his private chambers. The message, delivered by a breathless young footman, indicated that his presence was required immediately.

The room to which Philip was directed was one he had scarcely visited himself—an immense chamber on the estate's east wing, featuring ceilings high enough to accommodate a second-floor gallery that ringed the space. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from ornately plastered ceilings, casting rainbow-fractured light across marble floors inlaid with exotic hardwoods. The space could easily have hosted a banquet for fifty, yet served merely as the Duke's private sitting room.

Beyond a set of massive oak doors lay the Duke's bedroom, though these remained closed. Philip couldn't help but notice that the doors were engraved with an intricate winter landscape dominated by a female angelic figure whose proportions bore a striking resemblance to Empress Celestica, though her face remained artfully uncarved—a significant detail that Philip filed away for later consideration.

When Philip entered, accompanied by Lydia, he found Albert already in attendance, standing at attention near the Duke, who was seated in a throne-like chair before the roaring fireplace. Several servants waited silently against the walls, their expressions carefully neutral.

"Ah, Philip, do come in," the Duke said, his tone carrying the practiced warmth of a politician greeting a wealthy donor. "I trust you've recovered adequately from your recent... unpleasantness? The riots must have been quite distressing for someone of your sensitive constitution."

"I'm much improved, thank you," Philip replied, maintaining the formal cadence expected in this charade.

"Splendid, splendid," the Duke nodded, gesturing vaguely to a nearby chair. "Do sit. No need to stand on ceremony among family."

This statement, delivered in a room designed entirely around ceremonial grandeur, struck Philip as deeply ironic, but he complied without comment.

The conversation that followed was a masterclass in aristocratic small talk—discussions of weather, distant relatives, and minor political developments, all delivered with an air of profound significance despite their utter banality. The Duke's manner remained impeccably formal, each gesture seeming almost rehearsed, his expression maintaining a careful balance between polite interest and dignified reserve.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of meaningless pleasantries, the Duke leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening with sudden focus.

"I understand you've acquired something of a celebrity in your household," he said, his tone deceptively casual. "The 'Mysterious Blonde Beauty of Redwood,' your secret mistress, I presume? Would you care to enlighten me on this development, my dear grandson?"

Philip felt his mouth go dry, the carefully rehearsed explanations suddenly evaporating from his mind. "She's... that is, we... it's not exactly..."

The Duke raised an imperious hand, silencing Philip's stammering. "I understand the appeal of feminine companionship, particularly for a young man recovering from... heartbreak." His tone suggested he found Rosetta's rejection more embarrassing than painful. "However, you must consider the moral implications for such acts. We, as nobles, must hold ourselves to a higher moral standard than ordinary folks."

Philip noticed how the Duke's phrasing carefully avoided any suggestion of class prejudice, focusing instead on the moral questionability of the arrangement. It was masterfully done.

"I fear, Philip, that you may be inadvertently causing harm to this young woman's prospects," the Duke continued, his expression shifting to one of paternal concern that seemed almost genuine. "To squander her youth and reputation as a kept woman, regardless of how comfortable the keeping... well, it seems a disservice to her future potential."

The servants along the wall visibly softened at this apparent consideration for a common girl's welfare. Philip could almost see their admiration of the Duke rising in real time.

"Therefore," the Duke concluded, "I must insist this arrangement be terminated immediately. Of course, the girl should be properly compensated for her... love. Shall we say thirty thousand Continental dollars? A generous sum that should provide amply for her retirement."

Philip stared, struggling to formulate a response to this perfectly constructed argument that managed to simultaneously claim moral high ground while reinforcing class divisions under the guise of compassion.

But then, just as Philip opened his mouth to protest, the Duke's expression shifted subtly. "Unless, of course," he added, his tone suddenly thoughtful, "the two of you are truly in love."

The statement landed in the room like a dropped crystal goblet, shattering the carefully maintained formality. Everyone except Lydia and Albert appeared genuinely shocked by this unexpected turn.

"Lydia," the Duke commanded, "please fetch the young lady in question. I believe a direct conversation is necessary."

As Lydia bowed and departed, the Duke turned to the servants. "Please leave us for now. We require privacy for family matters."

The staff filed out quickly, followed by Albert, who paused briefly at the door with an almost knowing look before pulling it closed behind him and stationed himself outside the door.

As the sound of the latch echoed through the chamber, an extraordinary transformation took place. The Duke's rigidly formal posture melted away like ice in a summer sun. He slouched back in his chair, loosened his collar, and fixed Philip with an entirely different gaze—warm, mischievous, and startlingly familiar.

"Well now, my boy!" he exclaimed, his aristocratic accent softening considerably as he loosened his collar. "Thank heavens that charade is over. One can only maintain such rigid formality for so long before developing a permanent scowl."

Philip stared, momentarily speechless.

The Duke chuckled warmly at his expression. "Surely you haven't forgotten our private manner of discourse? You look positively bewildered. Has that amnesia truly affected you so deeply?" He rose with surprising agility and clasped Philip's shoulders firmly, his eyes twinkling with genuine affection.

"I... yes, the amnesia," Philip managed, still reeling from the transformation. "The ceremony seemed rather... elaborate."

"Necessary theater, nothing more," the Duke said with a dismissive wave as he poured two fingers of whiskey into crystal tumblers. "Between us, I find it thoroughly exhausting, but such displays serve their purpose. How else do you instill awe in the hearts of others than by spending more on a procession than they make in a lifetime?"

He offered a glass to Philip before taking a measured sip of his own, appreciating the amber liquid with a satisfied nod. "You cannot imagine my discomfort during that absurd helicopter procession. Such extravagance pains me personally as it hit me where it hurts the most: the wallet. But, hey, that's the membership cost of staying in the nobility and reaping the rewards of their privilege and power." He grinned, tapping his temple. "In other words, it's the price of maintaining power. But with power... we can make a difference, and maybe fatten our wallets. It's a sweet cycle."

Philip found himself smiling despite his confusion. This version of the Duke—candid, personable, almost conspiratorial—contrasted so sharply with the imperious figure from the landing pad that the transformation seemed almost magical.

The Duke glanced at his watch—a surprisingly modest timepiece given his otherwise extravagant display. "Okay, so time is short; got to get to the real topic before people get suspicious." His expression sobered, eyes fixing on Philip with sudden intensity. "So... about Natalia..."

Part 2

A thousand crystal chandeliers blazed like captive constellations across the vaulted ceiling of the Imperial Grand Ballroom. The space—large enough to host three hundred couples in comfortable splendor—stood nearly empty save for two figures moving in perfect synchronicity across the polished marble floor. Their reflections rippled in the gleaming surface like dancers in a mirror world, adding to the dreamlike quality of the scene.

Sir Arthur led his aide, Dianna, through an intricate waltz, his white formal attire a stark contrast to her crimson gown. The First Minister moved with surprising grace for a man of his position, each step precise yet fluid, as if the elaborate dance were as natural to him as political maneuvering. His ceremonial uniform—dazzling white with gold epaulets and a crimson sash—marked him as nobility of the highest order, though anyone who knew him well understood he wore such finery with the same theatrical approach he applied to everything else: a necessary performance.

Dianna, typically the picture of professional restraint, had transformed for the evening. Her gown—a masterwork of Francimonian design—clung to her statuesque figure before cascading into a voluminous skirt that swirled hypnotically with each turn. The silk whispered against the marble as she followed Arthur's lead, her movements both sensual and dignified. Her fiery red hair, usually constrained in a severe updo, now fell in elaborate waves around her shoulders, catching the candlelight with each graceful turn.

"You dance remarkably well for a woman who claimed to have 'two left feet' when I first suggested this," Sir Arthur commented, executing a flawless turn that momentarily pressed Dianna against his chest before spinning her outward again.

"Competence is a professional requirement in your service, sir," she replied with characteristic formality, though a hint of pleasure colored her voice. "Though I confess, this is more enjoyable than budget reviews."

Arthur laughed, the sound echoing through the empty ballroom. "High praise indeed."

As the string quartet in the far corner transitioned to a more intricate piece, Arthur guided Dianna through a series of complex steps. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, maintaining the precise distance demanded by aristocratic propriety, except during the occasional turns that required momentary intimacy—each instance executed with such elegant control that nothing inappropriate could be inferred by even the most scandalized observer.

"I must say, I'm surprised your wife permitted you to dance alone with another woman," Dianna remarked as they glided past a row of gilded mirrors, their reflections multiplying infinitely. "Won't she be concerned about such... proximity?"

Sir Arthur's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "My dear Dianna, you've uncovered my darkest secret—my marriage is a sham!" He twirled her expertly before continuing. "Lady Esther and I have what enlightened circles call a 'marriage of convenience.' We present ourselves as the embodiment of modern liberal values—the progressive power couple who support each other's autonomy—while in reality, we couldn't give a damn what the other does."

Dianna nearly missed a step, quickly recovering as Arthur guided her back into rhythm.

"Smoking exotic herbs in the conservatory or engaging in carnal gymnastics in the east wing with the Arussian ambassador—all perfectly acceptable provided two conditions are met," he continued, as casually as if discussing the weather. "First, discretion is paramount. Second, whatever activities one pursues must not bring disease or disrepute to the other."

"Sir, I hardly think—" Dianna began, her cheeks flushing.

"Our policy is elegantly simple," Arthur interrupted with a wink. "Don't ask, don't tell, and for heaven's sake, don't bore me with the details unless they're particularly scandalous."

"That's... rather more information than I required, sir," Dianna managed, her face now nearly matching the crimson of her gown.

"Nonsense!" Arthur exclaimed as he executed another flawless turn. "One can never have too much of a currency, and information, my dear Dianna, is the finest currency of all."

Dianna rolled her eyes, a gesture she would never have permitted herself during working hours. "I believe even currency loses value with excessive circulation, sir."

"Touché!" Arthur laughed, genuinely delighted by her retort.

They continued their dance in momentary silence, the music swelling around them as they claimed the vast space designed for hundreds as their private domain. The room itself seemed a living monument to the Empire's former glory—massive columns of Gillyrian marble supporting arches adorned with gold leaf and hand-painted scenes of imperial conquest. Ancient banners hung from the ceiling, each representing a territory brought under Avalondian rule during the expansion era. The frescoed ceiling depicted Empress Celestica in divine form, bestowing blessings upon the Empire's populace, though the artist had taken considerable liberties with her already generous proportions.

"I must thank you again for this unexpected kindness," Dianna said after executing a particularly complex sequence flawlessly. "Being stood up at dinner was humiliating enough without having to waste the evening alone."

"The man is an absolute imbecile," Arthur declared with sudden vehemence. "Imagine being intimidated by a woman's professional success! Though I suppose his suspicion that you love your work more than him was entirely accurate."

"He actually accused me of being in love with you," Dianna admitted with a small, embarrassed laugh.

"With me?" Arthur appeared genuinely astonished for perhaps the first time in their acquaintance. "Good heavens, the man is even more delusional than I thought! You clearly have far better taste."

"Indeed," Dianna agreed dryly. "I prefer men who at least pretend to care what I think."

"You wound me, madam!" Arthur clutched his chest theatrically, never missing a step. "I value your thoughts above all, save maybe those of the Empress."

As the music shifted to a slower tempo, their conversation turned to matters of state, the transition as smooth as their dance steps.

"Our overseas territories are becoming an absolute nightmare," Arthur sighed, his expression darkening. "In fact, our most valuable dominion—the crown jewel of the Empire and lynchpin of my rejuvenation plan—now teeters on the brink of internal strife between rival political factions, each with their own armed militia. Do you know I've endured several sleepless nights pondering the implications of the recent escalation in internal tensions in our most prized dominion? I normally only sacrifice sleep for late night dates with Celestica."

Dianna maintained her composure, having grown accustomed to her superior's inappropriate asides. "The economic implications are certainly concerning."

"Concerning? They're catastrophic!" Arthur exclaimed, executing a dramatic dip that left Dianna momentarily breathless. "I've spent countless hours with economic advisers crafting the perfect strategy to welcome the industrial exodus from the United Eastern States. With the tariff war between them and the Continental Republic, we had positioned the largest of our three dominions as the ideal manufacturing refuge."

He pulled Dianna upright with a flourish before continuing, his voice dropping conspiratorially despite their solitude. "Of course, the Republic's workers are far too decently paid, and we all know manufacturers are allergic to paying living wages. The multinationals require somewhere they can continue to pay indecent wages but with more political influence. Where else can be better than our colonies, which the elites of the Republic had already thoroughly infiltrated with their capital?"

"The perfect arrangement for maximum profiteering while maintaining a pristine moral image," Dianna observed.

"Precisely! They rake in obscene profits while publicly decrying the 'evils of Empire.' Such magnificent hypocrisy deserves a standing ovation." Arthur twirled Dianna with unnecessary vigor, his irritation manifesting in his dancing. "And now riots and factional infighting across the various dominions threaten everything. Absolutely maddening."

Sensing his darkening mood, Dianna skillfully shifted topics. "How are the efforts to halt the European conflict progressing?"

"Ah, that particular farce," Arthur said, his expression brightening with sardonic amusement. "The Continental Republic has magnanimously insisted we represent Osgorreich's interests at the peace negotiations. Apparently, no self-respecting Osgorreichian politician will risk appearing to be a sell-out before their electorate by being seen negotiating with Arussians."

"You know, Osgorrotians are known to prefer politicians who can maintain their hardness regardless of the position," he added with a suggestive arch of his eyebrow, "the same applies to the far more nationalistic smaller states in the coalition—none willing to be the face of potential compromise."

"But why request our involvement specifically?" Dianna asked as they glided past a row of massive windows overlooking the imperial gardens, now silver-bathed in moonlight. "Wouldn't we also prefer to maintain our current image of neutrality?"

"Officially, yes," Arthur replied, executing another complex turn. "The Republic claims that the fact that Arussia and Avalondia are both empires meant that we would reach instant rapport and understand each other better. It's absolute rubbish, of course."

He lowered his voice, though no one was present to overhear. "The true motive is transparent: they seek to foment discord between what they view as evil regimes—the empires. Additionally, Arussia bristles at sharing table space with the Republic representatives given their... complicated history. Something about their old hobby of planting revolutions in each other's backyards, infiltrating each other's government apparatuses, and threatening to wipe each other out of existence whenever something goes wrong at home."

"If their strategy is so obvious," Dianna questioned, "why accede to their demands?"

Arthur's expression turned uncharacteristically grim. "Because, my dear, we have precisely zero choice in the matter. The Republic has made it abundantly clear that they will cease supplying us with weapons within two months. If peace isn't achieved by then, we will run out of weapons to paste our brands on, and the hollowness of our fearsome military-industrial complex will be exposed to the world."

He executed a particularly complex series of steps, as if channeling his frustration through dance. "Our deterrence would evaporate overnight, leaving only Celestica and our two other secret Guardians—and there's limited deterrent value in weapons no one knows exist. As for Celestica..." He paused, sighing dramatically. "Let's just say she doesn't elicit the desired reactions."

Dianna processed this information with a thoughtful frown. "So who from the Empire will lead this delegation? Surely, if any high-ranking official attends, it would fuel global speculations that the Empire is the true puppet master behind Osgorreich's coalition."

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"Precisely the conundrum," Arthur agreed. "Our conspiratorial reputation—a charming relic from more ambitious times—makes any senior representative problematic."

"Then who?" Dianna pressed, genuinely curious.

Arthur's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Colonel Kendrick Nernwick."

Dianna nearly stumbled, saved only by Arthur's firm lead. "The Colonel of Hearts? But why him? He has virtually no diplomatic experience!"

Arthur guided her through another turn, bringing his lips close to her ear in a move that blurred the line between dance and seduction. His breath warmed her neck as he whispered, "In the theater of diplomacy, sometimes the most effective tool is not language, but the face that utters it."